


The Kindest Word

by Dark_Aegis, wendymr



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Aegis/pseuds/Dark_Aegis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You’re not allowed to die on me, got it?” </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kindest Word

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere between S1 and S2.

_Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?_  
\- Mycroft Holmes, _A Study in Pink_

* * *

**IMMEDIATELY AFTER**

“You’re not allowed to die on me, got it?” John snarls as he presses his hands onto the wound. The doctor in him wants to despair; there are so many injuries. Most worrying is the gut shot, which would be bad enough on its own, but is worse given Sherlock’s been through days of ill-treatment and maybe even brutality. His friend has lost so much blood. The man in him dares to continue to hope.

Sherlock’s eyes open a sliver—it shouldn’t even be possible, but Sherlock does so enjoy shoving impossible out the door. “Wouldn’t... dream of it.” He goes still.

John bites back a sob and presses harder, praying for someone to find them in time.

* * *

**ONE WEEK BEFORE**

“Will you come?” Greg Lestrade asks, even though he knows the answer. He always knows the answer. Sherlock Holmes can’t help himself. And, god help him, he can’t help asking the question. 

“Tell me,” Sherlock intones, making no move to leave his perch on the sofa.

“Murder.”

Sherlock glares at him. “If it were a simple murder, you wouldn’t need me. Surely London’s finest could manage a ‘murder’.”

The man is insufferable. But Greg needs him and he’s man enough to admit it. “Deceased’s Mr. Terrance Ulbright, estate agent. He was found in a warehouse near Carrara Wharf yesterday, near Putney Bridge, shot in the head, one shot, execution-style.”

“And?” Sherlock prompts. “Estate agents are hardly the most popular of professionals. Murder of an estate agent alone is tedious. Boring. You wouldn't bring me an estate agent murder unless... Ah. No-one knows why he was in that part of the city.”

Sometimes, Lestrade’s convinced Sherlock’s telepathic. “Ulbright dealt in houses, not in business premises. There was no reason for him to be in the warehouse and there was no indication of forced entry. Will you come?” He’s starting to repeat himself. Damn. He’s not begging. He’s not.

Sherlock smiles. “Of course. How does that mindless drivel John’s fond of go? Oh, yes. You had me at ‘murder’.”

* * *

**FOUR DAYS BEFORE**

Sherlock has a habit of disappearing, sometimes for days, without telling anyone where he’s going. John’s speculated, of course, but his theories are always disproved the instant Sherlock returns to their flat stinking of something weird—memorably, once of cat pee—and informing John he's learned exactly who killed their victim _du jour_. John’s greatest fear is that during one of these jaunts Sherlock’s going to get himself into more trouble than he can handle on his own.

He shouldn’t worry. Sherlock’s been doing this for years—long before one John Watson came into his life. The problem is that he knows Sherlock. He knows how the man works and how he loves to put himself into danger just to prove how clever he truly is. There have been many times over the past few months John has found himself lingering over the lockbox that holds his gun, wondering if the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach means he should start carrying it with him. 

Now, this. John just came home from a morning shift at the clinic to find the flat in more disarray than usual, with Mrs Hudson wringing her hands in dismay at the state of the place. Sherlock’s been helping Lestrade with a smuggling ring and their living room is covered in the detritus of that case.

The case Sherlock has refused to tell him anything about because, when Sherlock asked him—no, commanded him—to accompany him somewhere or other because just conceivably there could be a clue, John had a shift at the clinic and said so. Ever since, his flatmate’s been sulking and won’t talk about the case.

And John has been his usual stubborn self and refused to play Sherlock’s game and apologise for not being available, so it’s been a tricky stalemate in the flat ever since. 

Now he’s come home to this, and there’s a knotting in his gut he hasn’t felt since Afghanistan.

It’s chaos—but there's order to Sherlock's chaos, and this has no order. Someone else has been here.

Not Sherlock. He hasn’t seen or heard any sign of Sherlock’s presence in the flat for two days. No odd sounds at night: no violin-playing at all hours, or new bits of human anatomy appearing in the fridge. None of the usual signs of his flatmate’s existence. Though, given the standoff that’s existed between them for the past three days or so, he didn’t really think anything of it. This, though... This is Not Good.

What is good—a huge relief, in fact—is that it’s not Moriarty. Nothing’s ever going to be Moriarty ever again. That murdering bastard’s six feet under now. He might have been a slippery toerag when he was alive, but nobody’s coming back from the way he died. Half a dozen bullets to the head and chest, resulting in a backwards flip from a thirty-storey building. What was left of him had to be scraped off the ground below.

John, Sherlock and Lestrade were on top of the building and witnessed Moriarty’s death—John still regrets not having fired one of the bullets, but Mycroft’s shadowy government agents got there just ahead of them—though John still demanded DNA tests on the remains, to make sure there was no room for doubt. Lestrade didn’t take much persuading, though John suspects Mycroft had already arranged for his own testing to be done anyway.

So, no, whoever this is, it’s not Moriarty. Doesn’t mean that Sherlock can’t be in some kind of trouble, though.

John shoos Mrs Hudson away, promising to tidy and “have a word” with Sherlock when he gets home. Once he’s alone, he frowns and reaches into his pocket for his mobile. Sherlock doesn’t answer his phone while on a case— 

Who is he kidding? Sherlock doesn’t answer his phone, period. That is, apparently, what John is for. But, if Sherlock were able, he would respond to a text.

_Someone's been in the flat._   
_Not you and not Mycroft._   
_Who've you pissed off now?_

Ten minutes later, John’s checked the rest of their flat. No room was left untouched by whomever had decided to have a look through their things. Lovely. This is going to take a while to sort, and John’s not willing to call in Lestrade without at least more evidence that there’s a problem. It could be that Sherlock’s perfectly fine, just off having a sulk somewhere else. Or he really is in trouble. 

He tries another text. Maybe this will get his flatmate’s attention?

_Stop sulking and tell me where you are._

He only waits five minutes this time.

_Don’t make me call Lestrade._

Two minutes.

_Or Mycroft._

Still nothing.

One of those texts should have spurred Sherlock at least to reply with a ‘piss off’. Something’s wrong. 

Or maybe not. John makes himself breathe, and think about this logically. Mad bastard that Sherlock is, there could easily be another reason. If he’s in the depths of Bart’s morgue with his entire attention focused on an experiment, he’d be perfectly capable of ignoring dozens of texts—even a threat to call Mycroft.

Standing in the middle of the living-room, surrounded by papers and other detritus, John weighs up his options. Call Lestrade—or even Mycroft—and risk embarrassment when Sherlock turns up safe and sound, and pissed off that John dared to raise the alarm? Or not call them and risk that something’s really happened to Sherlock?

Of course, if this was the other way around and it was John who was missing, Sherlock would have found him by now. Probably would’ve done something like notice a strand of fluff from his sock trapped in the banister and concluded that he’d been carried out unconscious from the flat. 

Right. There’s a reason why Sherlock’s the consulting detective and he’s the... what? Assistant? Sidekick? Convenient half-decent doctor who’s also a damn good shot? Ex-soldier and army doctor who’d do a bloody good job of rescuing Sherlock—assuming he is in some kind of trouble—if only he knew where the hell his missing flatmate is.

Analyse the evidence, that’s what Sherlock would say. Don’t deduce without data. Understand the facts. And the facts are: Sherlock is missing; Sherlock was working on a case for Lestrade—and the details of said case, along with much of the contents of their living-room, are scattered in a mess all over the floor. 

Why? Why would someone turn the place upside-down? Well, they’d hardly do it just to cause him inconvenience. So there’s another reason. Whoever did it was looking for something. Right? Wanted to know what Sherlock knew—or to stop him finding out something he didn’t already know. So they were looking for something.

Did they find it? Sherlock, naturally, would take one look and know what’s missing and why it’s important. If John’s going to phone Lestrade—and, all right, he is—the least he can do is give Lestrade a decent account of the situation. It’d help to have a good reason why he’s come to the conclusion that Sherlock’s missing, rather than just off doing his own thing again.

John crouches down, trying to avoid disturbing anything as he gazes at the papers strewn across the floor. Pages from the case file, photographs of the suspects and the suspected arrival points, handwritten notes from Lestrade, diagrams drawn in Sherlock’s distinctive spider-scrawl... He tries to make sense of what he’s seeing, tries to match it to what’s been on the desk for the past few days, but he keeps questioning his conclusions. Was there another photograph? Didn’t he see a sheet where Sherlock had written a series of names, with arrows back and forth between them—or was that the last case?

In the end, he has to conclude that there are some missing documents. Which means that the likelihood that Sherlock is also missing—as opposed to merely being absent by his own choice—is now almost certain.

He can almost hear his flatmate’s voice in his ear. _“Very good, John! Of course, you missed just about everything.”_

“Yeah, thanks, mate,” he mutters, and his brain’s swimming now with images he’d really prefer not to be seeing, of his flatmate’s battered body in a variety of fatal poses. “Be a bit more helpful if you told me where you are.”

“I do appreciate, Dr Watson, that you were unwilling to report to me on my brother’s activities.” Mycroft’s deliberate, faintly sardonic voice sends John turning abruptly to stare towards the door of the flat. Sherlock’s brother stands just inside, three-piece suit immaculately in place, umbrella resting at an angle in front of him. “I did hope, however, that you would at least have the good sense to inform me if Sherlock went missing.”

* * *

**THREE DAYS BEFORE, ANOTHER LOCATION, SAME CITY**

Musty. Damp. His head throbs and it feels as though his hair is plastered against his skull with something sticky—blood. His arms, legs and torso are securely bound to a chair with what feels like plastic ties. He opens his eyes. Darkness. Heavy pressure, enclosed space. Underground. Obvious. 

Sherlock sighs. Deeply. He expected better of this lot. The bindings were predictable. The pain was anticipated. Boring. He was knocked on the skull and dragged through a—house? Warehouse? No. Speculation. He needs facts. The location, though. Where is he besides underground?

It starts at his feet and climbs through the chair and his body. Vibration. Rhythmic. Train. Overground or Tube? No, that isn’t an underground train. Not mainline rail or light railway either. The carriages are too short and too light. And the sound’s coming from above, not beside or below his current location.

So the Tube, an overground stretch. But where? He closes his eyes and imagines the Tube map. Wait. Squeaking noise—brakes. Close to a station. 

The squeaking is high-pitched. Newer trains do not suffer that particular problem. Older stock—C or D, perhaps. Sub-surface and partial surface lines operating those particular rolling stocks now are limited. Circle, District, Hammersmith and City. Of those, the District Line is the only one that has above-ground sections.

Unlikely that this is due to another case or one of his many enemies. No-one has been released from jail who carries a grudge. Moriarty and his supporters are either dead or gone. Conclusion. This is connected with Ulbright’s murder and the smuggling ring. Conclusion. He has to be somewhere close to the river. That also rules out the other two lines. If further confirmation were needed, the District line is the only one that travels through Putney. The Edgeware to Wimbledon branch, to be precise.

The District Line travels above ground elsewhere, so he needs more data to confirm his hypothesis. This branch has six trains per hour off-peak, up to ten per hour at peak time. That means a wait of between six and ten minutes to investigate further.

It’s exactly six minutes when he hears another rumble, and again the squeal of brakes being applied and the whoosh of air as the train approaches the station. Ah. Not close enough to the station to hear the doors open or the announcer’s voice. Disappointing. But those carriages definitely have the four sets of double doors that typify C-stock trains, only used in one place: the Wimbledon branch. Yes. He’s in Hammersmith, most likely between Cararra Wharf and Putney Bridge station. Obvious.

Good. He has a location. He knows where he is. 

Footsteps. Heavy-set. Two pairs. There’s a scraping sound behind him and suddenly his room—broom cupboard, more like—is flooded with light. “Well done, Mr Holmes. Seems we’ve found your weakness, haven’t we?”

Sherlock doesn’t try to turn his head. He continues staring straight ahead, even after his pupils have adjusted to the light. Why would he bother acknowledging his captors? They're dull. Idiots. Well, idiots in their actions. But, sometimes, even idiots can stumble into certain truths that can get them what they want.

There’s a wash of foetid breath that makes his nose wrinkle in response as a man leans close to his ear. “Don’t worry, lad. Your doctor’s got nothin’ to worry ‘bout. You, though? You’ve got lots to worry ‘bout. Startin’ with this.” 

He moves into the field of Sherlock’s vision and holds up a K-Bar knife. Military issue, so his captor is former armed forces? No. Grip not quite fitting the wear marks. Bit of use on that blade, can’t quite see the full insignia on the handle but that tells him enough. Relative. Father, most likely. Inherited.

That gives him enough to start with. “I am certain your father is proud of you.”

The man’s eyes narrow as he steps forward, menace writ across his features. “What did you say?”

Sherlock smiles. “You heard me perfectly well. You use that knife because you want your father to be proud of you. But he was an army man—4th Division Infantry from that insignia. But a smuggler? Oh, he’d be so proud.”

The man raises the knife.

“Stop it, Frank!” 

Ah. There it is. The other smuggler. Second-hand coat. Does nothing to hide the man’s heavyset features. He grabs Frank’s arm. “We need him alive.”

“Not forever,” Frank snarls.

“No. Not forever,” the other man agrees and Frank’s fingers tighten on the knife.

* * *

**TWO DAYS BEFORE**

“I wasn’t sure he was actually missing until just this minute.” The defence sounds weak even as he utters it, and Mycroft’s response is completely predictable.

“You _do_ still live here, do you not, John? You haven’t moved out within the last four days?”

He can’t help the irritated reply that springs to his lips. “I’m sure if I had you’d be well aware of the fact—probably even before I was.” He sighs then and, before Mycroft can say anything more, adds, “Yeah, you’re right. I should have realised. But I’ve been doing extra shifts at the clinic—it’s flu season—and Sherlock’s been busy on this case, so we’ve barely seen each other for the past few days.”

Mycroft doesn’t comment. The weight of his gaze seems to find John guilty as charged.

Or maybe that’s just his imagination. “It wasn’t until I came home to find i>this... and then I texted him and he didn’t reply–”

“Indeed.” Mycroft reaches into his pocket and pulls out a very familiar mobile. “ _‘Someone's been in the flat. Not you and not Mycroft. Who've you pissed off now?_ ’” A very brief pause. “‘ _Stop sulking and tell me where you are’._ ”

“Where did you find that?” His stomach’s starting to churn, and he’s fighting the instinct to run straight out of the flat—pausing only to grab his gun—to rip London apart looking for Sherlock. There’s no point, not yet. Not without more data, as Sherlock constantly reminds him.

“A simple trace. Nothing your Detective Inspector friend wouldn’t have been able to do in minutes, though neither he nor you would have been able to get past Sherlock’s password.” Mycroft slides the phone back into his pocket. “It was found this morning wedged in the branch of a tree in Eaton Square. Unfortunately, despite considerable efforts devoted to searching, no further trace has been found of my brother thus far.”

John blinks. “ _In_ a tree? So it wasn’t dropped accidentally?”

“That would be highly unlikely, John.” Only Mycroft can convey even more wearied impatience than Sherlock at his listener’s lack of intelligence. “Clearly, either my brother’s abductors discarded it so that it couldn’t be used to trace him, or–” He pauses, obviously for effect. “–Sherlock deliberately left it for me to find.”

Eaton Square. Almost due south of Baker Street, on the other side of Hyde Park. Why would Sherlock be there? It’s a long way from his usual haunts: Scotland Yard and the Bart’s morgue, or the Embankment where he usually consults with his homeless network. John mentally counts through landmarks: close to Victoria Station, not far from Imperial—could Sherlock have been consulting a scientist? 

“Why Eaton Square?” he asks, as much to himself as Mycroft. “And why would leaving his phone be a message to you?” _And not me?_

“It is, after all, the one item that Sherlock is never without. He would never abandon it without very good reason. He knew that I would realise he was in trouble–”

John interrupts Mycroft’s slow recitation of reasons. “And if we have it, we can see his call history! If he went to meet someone—and he must have, why else would he have been there—they must have phoned or texted him.” 

“He—or she—did indeed,” Mycroft replies. “Unfortunately, that is of no help to us. Other than calls from his usual connections, Sherlock received a call on Thursday evening at twenty-six minutes past eight from a blocked number. I did manage to trace it, but it came from what is, I believe, known as a ‘burn phone’. The phone itself no longer exists, and there is no record of the purchaser.” 

And, of course, the stupid git went off on his own, didn’t he? He could have asked John to go with him. Thursday evening, around half-past eight—he was home, wasn’t he? Right. He’d just been to the laundrette and he was ironing shirts upstairs in his room. All Sherlock had to do was _ask_ , the sodding bloody idiot.

He thought that was agreed between them. After Moriarty, after the pool when Sherlock deliberately got John out of the way so that he could arrange to meet that bastard on his own, they talked about it. Well, John talked and Sherlock pretended not to listen, but he stayed in the room and didn’t say a word, and that’s enough for John to know that he was paying attention. It’s the only thing John’s ever insisted on—well, apart from no uncovered body parts in the fridge: Sherlock’s not to go off to meet criminals on his own again. If he has to go somewhere that could be dangerous, John goes with him.

And Sherlock bloody went off on his own anyway. Now he’s missing, most likely abducted, probably in danger and possibly even dead. All because he didn’t use the common sense he was born with. 

All he had to do was say, and John would have been right there beside him.

He’s going to fucking _kill_ the bastard when he gets his hands on him.

“So we have no idea who’s got Sherlock.” John’s heart is just about sinking to his stomach. “Okay, it’s got to be whoever he was investigating, but he didn’t tell me about this case.” 

Mycroft makes a sweeping gesture towards the chaos of Sherlock’s case notes. “I would imagine that we have at least some evidence with which to make deductions, even if the vital material is missing. However, why go to so much effort when help is at hand?”

Mycroft turns towards the door, and it’s only then that John hears the pad of footsteps coming up the stairs. _Sherlock!_ is the first thought in his head, and his heart actually skips a beat.

But the tall man who steps into the flat has salt-and-pepper hair and the world-weary expression of a copper who’s seen too much of the seedy side of London to be shocked by anything any more. “John? Mycroft? What the hell’s up with Sherlock? I haven’t heard from him since Thursday evening and he won’t answer his phone. Then I get a text from him half an hour ago telling me—not asking, mind you—to come here. Where is the arrogant prick?”

“We were rather hoping that you could tell us, Detective Inspector.”

* * *

**ONE DAY BEFORE**

He’s tired. Exhausted more like, but he can’t sleep. Hell, he hasn’t even been able to eat a bite since yesterday. John’s at his wits end. 

Tracing Sherlock’s steps has proven to be rather difficult. Not that he didn’t expect it—of course he did, it’s Sherlock. The man is a marvel and thinks a thousand times faster than anyone else on this planet—excepting, of course, his damned useless brother. How can John hope to follow after him? 

He needs a fucking clue. Something he can use. He saw the CCTV footage of Eaton Square. John saw Sherlock talking to someone who was clever enough to keep Sherlock in the line of sight of the CCTV cameras. They’d moved off somewhere off camera and that was it. No more footage. Even Mycroft seemed disturbed by that particular fact. It was like Sherlock had dropped off the face of the planet.

John pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Trying to follow Sherlock isn’t working. He needs to use his own instincts. He needs to start at the beginning. The murder.

He knows the estate agent was found near Carrara Wharf, thanks to Lestrade. It’s a long shot, but perhaps the smugglers are creatures of habit and will continue to use that area for whatever they’ve got on—including the kidnapping of certain nosy consulting detectives. 

Then again, it’s also possible Sherlock’s been taken by someone unrelated to the smuggling case. Sherlock did say he had enemies. John shakes his head. That’s speculation. He can’t wander down that particular rabbit trail. If he does, he’ll never find Sherlock before... well, before the unthinkable.

Fine. He has a location, but what is he supposed to do with that? It’s not likely the smugglers would have posted signs around the wharf telling him where his friend is. Nor would it help matters if he went about the area asking if anyone has seen Sherlock. 

He needs to focus on the smuggling ring. They deal primarily in drugs, so they’d need some sort of storage facility, a means of transportation and a means of distribution. If he makes the leap and assumes the warehouse is a drop-off point, where would they go from there?

Wait. An estate agent. Ulbright deals—well, dealt—in houses. What if he helped the smugglers find a house near the wharf and they killed him because he knew too much?

It couldn’t be that simple. Could it?

John reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile, dialling a familiar number. “Lestrade? John. Can you tell me if Ulbright sold or let any houses near Carrara Wharf?”

* * *

**THE DAY OF**

Pain is his constant companion now. It dominates his thoughts, blurs his vision. He tries to focus, to attain the clarity he needs. Each time it appears he’s successful, Frank does something else with that damned knife. Tiny cuts dot his bare torso, each one more painful than the last. Individually, the wounds do not bother him. It is the combination of them that drive him to distraction.

“No you don’t, Mr Holmes. No drifting off on me. We’re not finished,” Frank says, and with every word there is another incision. “I think you’re ignoring me.”

He lets his disdain show in his expression. “Impressive. I would have thought even that little conclusion would overtax your mind.”

His head snaps to the side from a slap that he didn’t see coming. Impossible. He sees everything. “Feeling better?” he asks. 

Frank’s lips twist into a snarl as Sherlock is struck again. There. An opening. His body is weak. Uncoordinated, but he knows where to strike. Frank forgot that he had freed one of Sherlock’s arms—all the better to reach the soft underside of his arm. There. Sharp jab at the nerve bundle—numb the arm, loosen the grip on the knife. Another move, pressure. _Snap _.__

Frank roars and starts to backhand him with his good hand. Sherlock ducks, Frank overbalances, and they both tumble to the floor. 

With the number of times he’s been injured in this course of work, one would think he’d be deadened to additional pain. Pain is pointless, something to be ignored, something to be overcome. That’s a lie.

The impact with the ground hurts far more than it should. It would be relaxing to simply close his eyes and let the chill of the concrete soothe his aches. He shakes his head sharply in an attempt to focus his thoughts. Frank will only be stunned for a moment.

There are many methods of incapacitating someone in a fight. Jarring the brain, limiting blood flow to the brain, crushing the oesophagus, striking specific nerve junctions. There is only one he can actually use in his current state. He’s hampered by his bindings. Frank is hampered by his broken wrist and his intellect. It’s an equal fight, but it’s only a matter of luck that helps Sherlock get the upper hand. 

He moves. The strength of the impact of the tips of his fingers against the nerve junction at the base of Frank’s neck shudders up his arm, opening half-closed wounds and jarring bruised muscles. 

Frank grunts once and then lies still, unconscious. 

It’s tempting to just rest for a moment, but he doesn’t know if or when someone will look for Frank. He needs to escape and that means finding that knife. 

An unacceptable, but unavoidable, three point four minutes later, he’s free.

His first sight of the world outside the broom cupboard is of a bare cellar and stairs leading upwards. He climbs slowly, mindful of any loose boards that may creak and notify whomever else might be in the—house? Yes. House. Older property.—that he’s escaped.

Once upstairs, it’s relatively easy to locate an exterior door. He carefully opens it and slips outside, but not before, in his stumbling motion, he makes an amateur mistake. He didn’t look for any trip wires or alarms. As he has often told John, it’s always something.

Opening the door breaks a trip wire and an alarm sounds within the house. He doesn’t wait for someone to find him.

Sherlock runs.

* * *

**NOW**

The night cracks with the sound of one shot. Just one, and it’s not from his weapon. John’s heart drops somewhere near his stomach. Where? God, where was it?

He grips his gun tightly, flipping the safety as he moves closer. He can’t just run in there, not with shots fired. Lestrade will be here soon, but not soon enough. Not when he knows—knows—that someone is shooting at Sherlock. He needs to get his bearings, locate the shooter, locate Sherlock. 

There. In the darkness outside the house he’s still around twenty yards away from—the only property Ulbright sold in this area—he can see movement and a flash of pale skin, illuminated momentarily by the street lamp. 

_Sherlock_. 

Isn’t that just typical? He’s finally managed to get within seconds of rescuing his friend, and the ungrateful sod’s managed to rescue himself. No doubt he’ll be crowing for weeks about how the great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t need anyone.

But— _shit_ , what’s that?

A muzzle flash, another shot, and Sherlock’s body jerks in reaction, then folds in on itself, collapsing to the ground. 

John doesn’t even let himself react. Trained instinct takes over, and he aims into the darkness, slightly to the upper left of the muzzle flash that came from about three yards in front and to the right of Sherlock, and shoots. A grunt. A tumble of another body to the ground, and John just doesn’t care about the possibility of any other enemies. He doesn’t give a damn because he’s running to the side of the supine form beside the house. 

He drops to Sherlock’s side, gun still in his shooting hand, his free one patting over the man’s motionless body, searching for the gunshot wound and whatever other injuries Sherlock’s sustained. It’s not the first time he’s done this kind of thing in the dark, though the light pollution in London makes it a damn sight easier than the Afghan desert.

There. Blood pooling from a shot to Sherlock’s stomach, and the bullet’s still inside.

“If you die on me now, you stupid sodding prick, I’m gonna let Mycroft organise your funeral.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Not even his brother’s name is enough to get a reaction from him. John’s suddenly freezing, but his hand doesn’t shake as he continues to press on Sherlock’s wound. There’s too much blood. He lays down his weapon—there’s not much point in being prepared for another enemy if that preparation costs him Sherlock’s life—and brings his left hand to join the right.

“You’re not allowed to die on me, got it?” 

Still too much blood spilling over his hands. But Sherlock’s not dead yet. His heart’s still beating, and John’s going to do whatever’s necessary to keep it that way.

Lifting one hand at a time, he strips off his jacket, using it together with the pressure of his hands to pack the wound. It’s not hygienic, but that’s the least of his worries. Damn it, he could do with that pretentious long coat of Sherlock’s right now, to keep his flatmate warm. 

Sherlock’s eyes open a sliver—it shouldn’t even be possible, but Sherlock does so enjoy shoving impossible out the door. “Wouldn’t... dream of it.” He goes still, and his heartbeat stutters.

John bites back a sob, freeing one hand to fumble for his mobile and hoping for a signal, as he presses harder with the other, praying for someone to find them in time.

* * *

**FIVE HOURS LATER**

There are times when John wishes he wasn’t a doctor. Sitting in a waiting room with nothing to do other than catalogue all the ways in which Sherlock could die during surgery is one of the worst of those times.

Not long after Sherlock’s heart began a dangerously erratic stuttering, sirens blared, and seconds later lights and pounding feet surrounded him. He didn’t raise his eyes from his patient, simply rapping out the barest of details. “Two shots fired. One shooter down, twenty yards at eleven o’clock. No-one else exited the house, but I wouldn’t bet on it being empty.”

“Thanks. Ambulance’s on its way.” 

It was Lestrade, and there wasn’t anyone John would have been happier to see right then. 

“Here, let’s get you some light.” Lestrade squats down, shining a torch on Sherlock’s torso. “He gonna be okay?”

And that is possibly the stupidest question Greg Lestrade has ever uttered. And they both know it and yet John can feel him hoping that this is not as bad as it looks. Unfortunately it is exactly as bad as it looks. 

John didn’t answer, unable to voice what his doctor’s intuition was telling him, especially given what he was able to see in the light of the torch. He’d seen men die of less severe wounds.

The ambulance ride was a complete nightmare, and it’s still touch and go, even after Sherlock’s taken into emergency surgery at Charing Cross Hospital, and Mycroft, white-faced and silent, joins him in the waiting room. That Mycroft doesn’t ask his opinion on Sherlock’s prognosis is a relief.

Lestrade joins them four hours after Sherlock was wheeled into theatre, his suit rumpled and hair even spikier than usual. He’s clearly had an update on the way in, because he only brings John coffee and doesn’t ask.

“You were right, John. Donovan and the team found another bloke inside the house, down in the cellar. Unconscious, with what looks like a broken wrist. He’s in custody now. Looked like they’d been keeping Sherlock in a cupboard in the cellar—we found a chair on its side, and broken plastic ties lying around it. The other bloke, the one who shot Sherlock as he was escaping, was found dead at the scene. Forensics are examining the area, but our guess is that Sherlock escaped through the side door and this bloke ran out the front door and intercepted him. We’ll examine the bullet in Sherlock’s stomach, but we’re pretty sure it’ll match the dead guy’s weapon.”

 _Shit_. Even distracted by his worry over Sherlock, John knows what’s coming next. The bullet that killed the enemy. He’d been lucky when he killed the cabby, but this time he isn’t going to get away with it.

“Indeed.” Mycroft speaks for the first time since joining John in the waiting room. “It’s fortunate indeed for Sherlock that Dr Watson retains a handgun licence, and is such a proficient marksman.”

Lestrade and Mycroft share a long look. Nothing needs to be said, but John knows that, even if Mycroft’s lying, Lestrade doesn’t want to arrest him for this. Mycroft’s given him a way out that he’s willing to take for now, even if it won’t end here. There’ll have to be an investigation and he will be interviewed, perhaps charged, but not tonight.

Definitely not tonight, for Lestrade leaves straight afterwards to rejoin his team. They’re busy rounding up the rest of the smuggling gang, thanks to leads found at the house in Carrara Wharf. 

Silence falls, interrupted only by the gentle sound of Mycroft’s index finger tapping the tip of his umbrella as the two of them stare straight ahead at doors that remain stubbornly closed.

“In case you’re wondering, John,” Mycroft murmurs eventually, “you do have a licence. I took the liberty of acquiring one after the incident with the taxi driver. The Detective Inspector will find that all is in order when he checks. As for the discharging of your weapon tonight, I imagine that an investigation will confirm that it was a lawful killing.”

That seems unlikely to John, but he knows better than to argue with Mycroft.

Mycroft resumes tapping his umbrella. John doesn't think he knows he's doing it. It takes him a moment to realise that there's a meandering pattern to it, an absent rhythm. John blinks. He knows this. Has heard it more times than he can count as he came up the staircase to 221B. It's one of Sherlock's violin pieces, something he'd dismissed with a shrug saying he'd made up as a boy. John glances over sympathetically. Mycroft is bleakly staring at the wooden handle. He opens his mouth, but doesn't know what to say and closes it again. 

Then closes his eyes and just listens.

Half an hour later, Mycroft’s tapping stops abruptly when the door swings open and a gowned surgeon enters. The operation’s complete and Sherlock’s in Recovery.

He’ll live. Of course the bastard’s going to live. He’s too stubborn to die from something simple like a gunshot wound. 

John waits long enough to check for himself that Sherlock will be fine, once he’s been moved to a private room—Mycroft’s arrangement—and John’s allowed the privileges of a physician to examine his flatmate for himself. 

Then he walks out of the hospital, and doesn’t look back.

* * *

**ONE DAY LATER**

He climbs the steps to their flat, deep in thought. Greg first tried the hospital, convinced that John would be by Sherlock’s side. Instead, all he found was a sleeping Sherlock, a mass of wires and sensors, and no John. The deep wrongness of that discovery still disturbs him. 

Greg taps on the door and then opens it, frowning when he sees the state of the place. Besides a small pathway from the kitchen to the door to John’s chair, every surface, including the floor, is still covered with photographs, paper and books. It doesn’t look like John’s taken the time to clean. No, of course he hasn’t. With Sherlock missing… Greg shakes his head and dismisses the thought. “John?”

“In here.”

Greg follows the voice into the kitchen and stops, staring at John. He looks… haggard. Even more so than last night. A mixture of anger and resignation rests upon his face, and Greg wonders if he should ask. “I need your statement.”

“Oh, right. Of course. Tea?” Before he responds, John’s already pulling down an extra mug.

“Are you all right?” Greg asks, watching John as he potters about the kitchen, filling the kettle and bringing out the tea.

“Fine.”

“Why are you here, John?”

John stops what he’s doing and turns to face Greg. “You know why.”

“No, actually. I don’t. I went to the hospital to see Sherlock and you weren’t there. I thought… well, never mind what I thought. Are you certain everything’s all right?”

John’s lips twist into an approximation of a smile. “No, not really. But it’ll sort itself out. Now, you said you wanted my statement?”

He wants to ask more, but he isn’t certain he truly wants to know. “Yeah,” he replies, pulling his police notebook out of his inside pocket. “I’ll have to get Sherlock’s later, when he’s conscious and up to it. Also, I wanted to give you an update on the case.”

“Right.” John gestures to the table. “Have a seat.”

It's all business then for the next hour or so as John, in a detached tone that makes him sound more like a distant observer than a participant, goes over his actions on the night before last: how he saw Sherlock running away from the house and then getting shot, and how he fired at the would-be assassin before seeing to Sherlock's wounds. It's at times like this Greg’s jolted into a reminder of just who John Watson is. Most of the time, it's easy to forget that this man was a soldier and, according to the description of a friend of Dimmock's who served with him, a crack shot—not to mention an excellent medic under conditions that would make most NHS doctors run screaming.

Of course, he's well aware of how effective John is with a gun; the dead cabbie is evidence of that. John's just lucky that the bullet hit the wall with enough force to render ballistics matching impossible—while he didn't want to arrest John for the shooting, a clear forensic report might have made it unavoidable. Just as well for all of them, really, that Sherlock's brother sorted John out with a licence for that gun of his. 

Which reminds him... “By the way, there won’t be any charges over the bloke you shot. The DPP said it’d be a waste of public money to prosecute—no jury would convict you.”

John just nods, not showing any outward reaction. He really shouldn’t be surprised, Greg tells himself. No doubt Mycroft Holmes already told John he had nothing to worry about.

As Greg tucks away the signed sheets of paper in his pocket a few minutes later, John stands and gestures to the kettle. "Another?"

Greg almost has to laugh. It's such an incongruous sight: John Watson standing in a Sherlock-messy kitchen, dressed in a woolly jumper at least one size too big for him, and with a hole in the toe of one of his socks. He looks every bit the man least likely to be a deadly assassin—and yet he is, with nerves of steel to match.

“Nah,” he answers as he realises John's staring at him, waiting for an answer. "Got to get back."

John nods, then, almost as an afterthought, asks, “What were they smuggling, anyway?”

“Knock-off electronics, mostly. Fake tablets, phones, MP3 players, that sort of thing—”

“What, the stupid bastard almost got himself killed over a knock-off iPad?” 

The sudden anger in John's voice would've shocked Greg if he hadn't been looking at the younger man. He's shaking—but with reaction. 

All right, there’s definitely no doubt that John cares very much that Sherlock almost died. It's not indifference that's keeping him away from Sherlock's bedside.

“It was more than just that,” Lestrade answers, still not going to touch what's going on between the two of them. “We knew about the electronics first. Reading police contacted us—they seized merchandise being sold at street markets and traced the supply to London via Paddington.”

“Which is on the District Line,” John comments, filling in the remainder of what Lestrade now knows, thanks to where Sherlock was found, is the complete distribution route.

“Yeah. Every couple of days, someone would take a couple of suitcases to their partner in Reading. But that was small-time stuff.” He rakes a hand through his hair, remembering the day—just hours before Sherlock was abducted, he now knows—he'd received a text telling him what was really going on. “The electronics were a cover. If any of their shipments had been intercepted, that’s all anyone would have noticed. The packing was what we should’ve been looking at—that’s where the real value was.” He pauses before adding, “All the polystyrene was injected with crystal meth. MDMA.”

“Bloody hell.” John shakes his head. “China. Right.” He frowns. “And Sherlock knew about this?”

“He told us. Well, I don’t think he had proof. He said all along that the quantities of electronics we were looking at were far too small to be worth anyone’s while and there had to be something else. Then he texted, wanting to know if anyone had tested the seized items for traces of narcotics. Took a couple of days to get the results back, but he was right. I’d been on the point of phoning to tell him when I got that text from Mycroft, summoning me.”

“I see.” John drums his fingers on the kitchen counter, brows drawn together. “So the self-declared genius of a consulting detective willingly went and put himself in the hands of people he was pretty sure were smuggling Class A drugs.” Now he’s clearly furious. “Thanks, Lestrade. That’s all I needed to know.”

Right. He doesn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what John’s doing here and not at Charing Cross Hospital. Trouble is, he has a horrible suspicion that his intervention, however unintentional, has just made matters worse.

* * *

**TWO DAYS LATER**

Hospitals are _dull_.

Yesterday wasn’t as tedious, mainly due to prolonged periods of sleep induced by the lingering effects of anaesthesia and the morphine drip, but today, with reduced levels of pharmaceutical intervention, has been unbearable. The pain is tolerable; the boredom excruciating.

The television is mind-numbing. The constant interruptions by medical and other staff to check his wounds, take vital signs, deliver meals and drinks he isn’t interested in, and otherwise make nuisances of themselves are irritating. The occasional presence of Mycroft is infuriating. The only interesting moments in a very long and boring day are provided by Lestrade, of all people, who came to ask him questions about his capture and imprisonment. Of course, he had to correct the inspector on the facts, as always. Lestrade, with the limited imagination so typical of his profession, didn't appreciate the differences between detention and imprisonment. It was his idea to walk into their particular trap, just as it was his idea to escape.

The only highlight of an otherwise fairly dull conversation is that along the way Lestrade filled in the gaps in his memory of the events following his escape.

John found him. Interesting. That shouldn’t surprise him, of course, given John’s background and special skills and everything his flatmate has learned from himself, and the fact that it’s hardly the first time John has managed to track him when he’s been in danger. According to Lestrade, John also saved his life, first by despatching Frank’s cohort and then by keeping him alive until the ambulance arrived. John really is quite excellent. No less than Sherlock would expect.

Then Lestrade leaves, and he’s left to his own devices again. _Dull_. He doesn’t even have his phone; Mycroft refuses to return it until he’s discharged. If he had his phone, he could read the news, check for interesting cases, see if anyone’s emailed him with something worthy of his attention... text John.

John’s not here. Hasn’t been here. When he regained consciousness yesterday morning, he instantly knew there was someone in the room with him, and his immediate assumption was that it was John. False. Instead, it was Mycroft: intolerable.

Then today, all interminable day, and still no John. Lestrade, in a clumsy lie that’s well below even his inferior abilities, said that he thought John was at work.

Working? Ridiculous. Selfish of him, in fact, to go to work while his flatmate and the man he claims to consider a friend is in hospital recovering from injuries that could have killed him. He’d have expected better of John. Sherlock might have needed something from the flat: did John not think of that? John could at least have brought him his phone and laptop, to provide some defence against this interminable boredom. Might even have offered some—admittedly not intellectually stimulating—conversation.

Sherlock frowns at the empty chair beside his bed, and the equally empty doorway. Considers the facts, and the John-less void in the room. No. Bad practice to speculate in the absence of facts, and what facts he does have don’t fit this situation. Fact: John was worried sick about him, to quote Lestrade. Fact: John went off on his own to find him, acting on a hunch, not even waiting for Lestrade and his team to get to the wharf before walking into danger. Fact: John sat beside him on the ground, holding his bleeding body together while he waited for help to arrive. Fact: after Moriarty and the pool, John spent every waking hour at his hospital bedside once he himself was allowed out of bed.

This absence is completely out of character for John. Unexpected. So what’s different this time?

Obvious. His injuries were far more serious this time. He was in intensive care for hours following surgery, and is under close observation even in this private room. Visitors must be restricted to family, hence the too-frequent and entirely unwanted presence of Mycroft.

Easily rectified. He just needs—

“Ah. Mycroft.” For once, his brother’s appearance is not unwelcome. “Tell these overzealous imbeciles that John has as much right to visit me as you do. In fact, more so.”

“Ah.” Mycroft’s gaze falls on a point somewhere beyond Sherlock’s head. “You assume that Dr Watson’s absence is the result of hospital policies. I’m afraid that is not the case. I have, in fact, made completely clear that he is to be considered family.”

“Obviously, someone has neglected to inform John,” Sherlock points out. He should not have to be stating the obvious like this. 

Mycroft’s shaking his head, and the pity in his eyes is both hypocritical and intolerable. “I’m afraid, Sherlock, that John is very well aware of his entitlement to visit you whenever he wishes. However, he has made clear that he has no wish to do so.”

* * *

**THREE DAYS LATER**

_It all comes down to this: Sherlock Holmes is an idiot._

_He’s done it again._

_I thought we were beyond this. Obviously not. When he gets the first chance, what does he do? He goes off and gets himself hurt._

John pounds at the delete key, watching the words disappear from his screen with each tap. It’s violent and in no way satisfying. He wishes he could punch Sherlock instead. He wishes he could strangle him. After Moriarty, the git had promised he wouldn’t go off without him. Confront criminals without him.

How quickly that was forgotten.

John growls and pushes his laptop away. If he were sane, he’d leave. Then again, if he were sane, he wouldn’t be in this situation. Damn it. John lets his head fall back against the back of his chair with a thump. He can’t change Sherlock. The mad bastard’s going to keep on getting himself into trouble and John’s going to keep running after him.

“You didn’t come to visit me in hospital,” a familiar deep voice intones. “You left me to the mercy of Mycroft and Mrs Hudson and _grapes_.”

“You noticed?” John asks, not turning his head. Of course the idiot discharged himself. He has a bloody gut wound. That doesn’t just sort itself in three days. But, of course, Sherlock thinks that he’s got a perfectly good doctor at home, so why would he stay in hospital when he could be a pain in John’s neck here?

“I notice everything.”

He can’t help the snort that escapes him at those words. “If you noticed everything we wouldn’t be in this situation, you arrogant dick.”

John can feel the weight of his friend’s gaze. It feels like pinpricks against his skin. Sherlock does notice everything, but there are definitely several blind spots. 

“You’re angry,” Sherlock observes. “Why?”

“You’re the clever one. Why don’t you tell me?” John asks. Well, to be honest, it’s more of a growl. 

“I discharged myself? No. Obvious. You’ve never minded keeping an eye on my injuries before. It’s something else. Ah. The case, then.”

“Wrong,” John snaps, turning his head to face the other man. “Try again.”

Sherlock paces back and forth, watching John throughout as he talks. “You were there for the aftermath. You killed the man who shot me, but that’s not what’s bothering you. Stabilising me, perhaps? The fact that I was injured badly enough to require surgery? No. You’ve seen much worse in combat, and you would’ve been with me at the hospital if it was simply the injury. So, not that. The fact that I didn’t share the details of the case? You didn’t want to join me. Besides, you were there for the thrill of the solution. That can’t—”

He was going to make Sherlock try to deduce it, but he’s too damned angry to wait. “Wrong, wrong, _wrong_. You went off on your own. You got _kidnapped_ , you wanker. And I didn’t _know_. I didn’t know anything about your bloody case and you could’ve been _killed_. If I hadn’t–” John stands, unable to have this discussion sitting down. “You could’ve _died_.” 

“I didn’t,” Sherlock points out.

“Because I found you in time. I might not’ve, Sherlock.”

“Impossible,” Sherlock replies. “Of course you found me. You had all the clues. I knew you would come.”

John gapes at him. “How? How could you possibly know that? There was nothing, Sherlock. Lestrade couldn’t find you. _Mycroft_ couldn’t find you.”

“You know my methods. When you care to use your brain, you can even approximate my answers.”

It’s not bloody fair. He’s trying to get himself worked up into a good rant and then Sherlock pulls something like that. John tries not to let on that he’s pleased by that assessment. He’s still angry, damn it. He waves his hand. “Fine. You didn’t die. But that doesn’t answer why you did it, Sherlock.”

“Thursday 6:30 am Hammersmith and City Line. 6:36 am, exit at Barking. Walk to King’s Cross, approximately three minutes. 6:47 am, board the Northern Line to Highgate. 7:01 am, walk to the surgery, approximately fourteen minutes,” Sherlock says, staring at him intently.

It doesn’t take long through Sherlock’s recital to realise he’s talking about John’s travel arrangements on the days he’s covering morning surgery. “What _possible_ bearing does my journey to work have on this?”

Sherlock doesn’t say a word.

Oh. _Oh_. “The phone call. The smugglers knew my routine?”

“Yes.”

“And you decided to… what? Give yourself up because they might kidnap me?”

“They weren’t going to kidnap you, John. They were going to kill you.”

 

* * *

If he imagined that his revelation would result in gratitude and at the very least understanding from John, he would have been very much mistaken. Instead, John seems to grow even angrier, his pleasure at Sherlock’s compliment vanishing. He paces around the limited space available in the messy living-room, fists clenching, clearly counting to himself.

He reaches fifty, by Sherlock’s count, before he stops and turns around, jaw clenched. “Have you forgotten what I did before I met you? All you had to do was tell me. I’d have been ready for them.”

Inadequate. “Have _you_ forgotten what happened when Moriarty wanted you?”

John’s eyes flash with fury—and chagrin. “They took me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting it, and I wasn’t armed. I know exactly what to do if I’m _expecting_ an ambush, Sherlock.”

He shakes his head. Why can’t John understand that he couldn’t take that chance? Yes, John’s good, but he’s not infallible. Moriarty proved that. “They were going to kill you.”

John laughs, but there’s no humour in it. It’s the kind of laugh you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley late at night. “They wouldn’t have. But instead they almost killed you.”

“That was an error,” he concedes, very much on his dignity. Really, do they have to turn this into an argument? He’s alive and John’s alive; isn’t that all that matters? He’s explained to John why he broke his promise and went alone to meet the smugglers. What else–? Oh. “Thank you for saving my life.”

The look of disbelief on John’s face tells him that was the wrong thing to say. He sighs. This, _this_ is why he doesn’t trouble with things like _feelings_ and _caring_. There’s nothing rational about emotions. John’s angry with him still and he can’t deduce why—no doubt because it’s not a rational reason. Yet it actually bothers him that John is this upset. Even if it is over something utterly irrational. He runs through it again, this time connecting the points of their conversation. Then focusing in on only John's half. 

How could he have allowed himself— 

He winces. Pacing is apparently not good for stitches.

“You idiot!” John exclaims, but now there’s concern, not anger, foremost in his voice. “You had abdominal surgery less than three days ago. Bloody well sit down—it’s a miracle you haven’t broken something open.”

Actually, now that John mentions it, his stomach is hurting. Badly. He sits and allows his flatmate to fuss over him. 

Ten minutes later, Sherlock is comfortably ensconced in his chair with a warm cup of tea cradled in his hands. It could be like any other day at 221B Baker Street, but it isn’t. He knows that there is more, much more, that must be done before his relationship with his friend can go back to normal. But what?

He watches John take his pulse. His fingers gentle even as he frowns at Sherlock. 

Sherlock frowns back, noticing the dark circles under John's eyes, the deepening lines beside them.

“All right, looks like you haven’t done too much damage. Not for the want of trying.” With a sigh and a shake of his head, John gets up and goes to make his own tea. 

Of course. Sometimes, the simplest solutions are the best. It has been established that Sherlock Holmes never apologises. Perhaps that is the best solution? His mind whirls through the implications and he sets his tea aside.

“I’m sorry, John,” he offers.

His flatmate looks gobsmacked. “Sher—”

Before John can finish saying his name, he continues, “I should have informed you of the threats to your life and let you know my intentions before it came to this point. After Moriarty, I could not allow you to be put into danger again because of myself. I was–” 

“Trying to protect me?” John asks. His friend shakes his head. “Sherlock, it’s my choice. I don’t follow you because I have to. I follow you because I _want_ to. You’ve got to know that.”

“I do,” Sherlock replies. “I just–” Life was so much simpler when he was a sociopath in truth rather than in name only. Feelings are terribly inconvenient. “John, I cannot see you hurt again.”

John shakes his head. “For a ruddy genius, you're completely thick. What makes you think I feel any different?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but then closes it again. No, that hadn’t occurred to him. John wants to keep him safe. They want to keep each other safe. Two apparently irreconcilable objectives, unless— 

“The work isn’t safe,” he allows.

“No.”

“But it’s important.”

“Very.”

“And I cannot stop doing it.” If that’s John’s solution, then they’re at an impasse.

“I wouldn’t ask it of you.” 

Good. 

“All I ask is that you allow me the same courtesy,” John replies.

Trust that John is as capable as he is of living with the danger? The look in John’s eye is telling him that, should he refuse to accept John’s request, his flatmate holds the trump card: who has had to save whose life most frequently in the months they’ve been living together? Accurate, though humiliating. Easier to spare himself that. “Perhaps you have a point.” 

John’s lips quirk into a smile. “Good. Since I’ve got you in such an agreeable mood, there’s something else we need to talk about.”

“What?”

“The eyes and the toe-nails. You remember. The ones you left in my favourite mug?”

“Dull,” Sherlock says dismissively.

“No, not dull. _Gone_. Tonight.”

Sherlock is about to explain the necessity of his research material even if he will, just this once, accede to John's request when a knock comes on the exterior door. The sound is quickly followed by the sound of Mrs Hudson's footsteps as she goes to answer it.

“Sherlock, dear!” Mrs Hudson calls from below. “That nice Molly Hooper from Bart’s is here. She says someone’ll need to come down and carry up the box. The feet are a bit heavy for her.”

John chokes on his tea. 

Sherlock smirks as he stands. “Of course.” He pauses for a moment by his friend’s chair, looking at him pointedly. “You’ll have to carry the box for me, though, John. Injured.”

John sighs heavily and sets his tea aside. “Fine. I'll get the ruddy box. But we're getting a second fridge and it's going to be an experiment-free zone.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally contained in [The Science of Deduction](http://pyramidspress.com/), a _Sherlock_ fanzine published by Pyramids Press in 2012.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Neadods and the wonderful editors at Pyramids Press, Cathy, Jeanne and Pen, for making our story better. Any errors and omissions remain our responsibility.


End file.
